6
" Gathering her bags, Alani started around the side of her house to the front door.
She drew up short at the sight of Jackson sprawled on her porch steps, a cowboy hat on his head, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He didn’t move, and neither did she.
He had an utterly relaxed look about him. But then, Jackson had perfected a deceptively indolent pose that hid razor-sharp reflexes and phenomenal speed.
Last night, all night, he’d been far from indolent.
Breathing fast, Alani studied him. His continued stillness suggested sleep. Even when she inched closer, he didn’t move.
He was now clean-shaven. A white T-shirt was pulled across his wide chest and shoulders, and hung looser around his taut abs.
Awareness stiffened her knees.
Memories of touching his body, tasting hit hot flesh, sent a tide of sensation through her veins. She swallowed audibly—and stared some more.
He sat with his long legs loose, one foot braced on a step, the other stretched out, his elbows back, his breathing deep and even.
Alani licked her lips and started to slowly, silently retreat.
“Don’t make me chase you, darlin’.”
Shock snapped her shoulders back. The big faker! He’d been watching her watch him. Teeth set, Alani asked, “What are you doing here?”
He gave a slow smile. “Whatever it takes . . . "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
7
" Then what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t be that obtuse. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Ah, yeah, gotcha. Modesty issue, huh?” He drove in a deceptively relaxed way. “Look, yours isn’t the first tail I’ve ever seen, okay?”
Fury stole Priss’s breath. She reacted without thinking, slugging his hard in the shoulder.
“Ow!” He grabbed her wrist and tossed her hand back at her. “I was trying to comfort you, woman.”
“Comfort!” He couldn’t be serious. No man could be that dense. “You’re a . . . a Neanderthal!”
“Am not.”
Flattened by his careless attitude, Priss stared at him in disbelief. He was a gorgeous guy, but still a jerk. Shaggy blond hair, darker and more unkempt than Trace’s, piercing green eyes, a strong jaw and . . . she peeked at his naked chest . . . Built.
Her chin lifted. “Where in the world did they even find you?” It had to be under a rock. Or deep in a cave.
He glared at her. “They who?”
“Trace and Dare.”
Giving her a cautious frown, Jackson rubbed at one bloodshot, swollen eye. “That’s top secret.”
That’s top secret, she mouthed, making fun of him, lashing out in her embarrassment.
He went rigid with affront. “Goddamn it, woman, you blinded me, nutted me, and damn near clubbed me to death. Now you have to ridicule me, too?”
He dared to complain to her? “You snuck into my bathroom. You saw me naked!”
“Yeah.” His mouth twitched. He nodded just a little. “Yeah, I did.” As he turned on his headlights and pulled onto the street, he said in an aside, “Sorry ’bout that.”
He did not sound sorry, not in the least.
“Didn’t mean to stare.”
He’d been staring? She should kill him. She really shoulder. But . . . she might need him for protection. And Trace probably wouldn’t like it if she offed one of his operatives.
“Naked woman and all.” Jackson gestured lamely. “It’s instinct, ya know? Guy’s gotta look. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
8
" Trace started to wave toward Matt, still with Priss wrapped around him, and she blurted, “I love you, Trace.”
That effectively drew him to a halt. His hands contracted on her backside. “What?”
“I love you.” Then she pointed at Chris, and to where Matt had disappeared. “They told me to fess up, so I am, and if you reject me, I swear I’ll drown them both.”
Very slowly, Trace’s expression changed from the heat of anger to a different type of heat. “Say it again.”
“Why?” She frowned at him with challenge. “Why don’t you say something first?”
“All right.” Sliding his hands up her back, over her shoulders, and into her wet hair, he kissed her. “You make me nuts, Priscilla.” He turned his head and kissed her again, a little longer this time. “You make me hot as hell, too.”
“I love you,” Priss reminded him, hoping it might prompt him to a more telling declaration.
His next kiss lasted long enough to take the chill off the lake, and Priss got so wrapped up in the taste of him that she almost forgot what she wanted to hear.
Chris didn’t. From the dock, he said, “If you’re going to keep her waiting like this, someone needs to finish putting sunscreen on her.”
Trace moved fast, grabbing for Chris’s ankle, but Chris jumped back out of reach.
Priss, feeling very affected by that kiss, nuzzled Trace’s neck and stroked his shoulders. He smelled delicious, felt even better. “Stop being a voyeur, Chris, and go away.”
Having joined Chris on the dock, Matt asked, “Does that mean I can stay?”
Trace lurched forward again, and Matt jumped back so quick he fell on his butt. “I’m going. I’m going!”
To bring Trace’s attention back to her, Priss bit him. Not a hard bite, but she felt the impression of her sharp teeth on that sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder.
Trace shuddered. “I love you, too.”
She licked the bite mark. “I’m so glad. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
9
" I’m not a person who does well with idle time.”
“Seriously? I never would have guessed.”
His teasing didn’t bother her, especially when she looked at her ring again. Smaller diamonds surrounded the impressive princess-cut stone, making it glint brightly in the sunlight. “It is so perfect.”
“If it’s not, we can exchange it—”
She snatched the ring up close to her chest. “Never.”
Trace gave a slow, sexy grin. “So, Priscilla Patterson, since you approve of my job, my home, my friends and my ring, will you try another new experience—and marry me?”
Joy bubbled up, but she didn’t want to shout just yet. “When you go off to—” She glanced at Matt “—work, will you at least tell me what’s going on?”
“Yes. As much as I can.”
“Will you be honest about the danger involved?”
“I’ll be honest with you about everything.”
“Okay.” She peeked at him, and winced in dread. “Did you want a big wedding?”
Trace frowned at the continued line of questioning. “I want whatever you want.”
That almost made her cry, too. “Another first,” she whispered, because before now, what she wanted hadn’t really mattered. She kept smoothing her hands over his chest, as always drawn by his physique. “You should enter a wet T-shirt contest. You’d win.”
Chris snorted, but Matt agreed. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
10
" Friend of yours?” Priss asked.
He turned on her so fast, she jumped back a foot.
“You don’t look happy,” Priss noted. What an understatement. “It was just a question. Don’t implode or anything, okay?”
He fumed quietly, and even in his rage, he looked self-possessed. “Under no circumstances will you provoke that woman. Do you understand me?”
Intrigued by the warning, Priss tried to see around him to wherever the woman had gone. He didn’t allow it.
His big, hard hand clasped her face, none too gently. “She will slit your throat and smile while doing it. And no one here will stop her. Do you understand me?”
“Uh . . .” It wasn’t easy to speak with the way he smooshed her cheeks, but she felt compelled to point out, “You stopped her.”
“This time.” He leaned down, close enough to kiss her, but his eyes said he had far from affectionate gestures on his mind. “I won’t always be around.”
“Duly noted. Now you can stop abusing my face.” He released her and she worked her jaw. “Jerk. I bruise easy.”
His eye did that interesting twitching thing again before he grabbed her elbow and hustled her forward. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
13
" She was especially taken with Matt.
Until he said, “It’s time to fess up, hon. Tell Trace how much you care. You’ll feel better when you do.”
Climbing up the ladder, Chris said, “Better sooner than later.” He nodded at the hillside behind them. “Because here comes Trace, and he doesn’t look happy.”
Both Priss and Matt turned, Priss with anticipation, Matt with tempered dread.
Dressed in jeans and a snowy-white T-shirt, Trace stalked down the hill.
Priss shielded her eyes to better see him. When he’d left, being so guarded about his mission, she’d half wondered if he’d return before dinner.
Trace wore reflective sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but his entire demeanor—heavy stride, rigid shoulders, tight jaw—bespoke annoyance.
As soon as he was close enough, Priss called out, “What’s wrong?”
Without answering her, Trace continued onto the dock. He didn’t stop until he stood right in front of . . . Matt.
Backing up to the edge of the dock, Matt said, “Uh . . . Hello?”
Trace didn’t say a thing; he just pushed Matt into the water.
Arms and legs flailing out, Matt hit the surface with a cannonball effect.
Stunned, Priss shoved his shoulder. “What the hell, Trace! Why did you do that?”
Trace took off his sunglasses and looked at her, all of her, from her hair to her body and down to her bare toes. After working his jaw a second, he said, “If you need sunscreen, ask me.”
Her mouth fell open. Of all the nerve! He left her at Dare’s, took off without telling her a damn thing and then had the audacity to complain when a friend tried to keep her from getting sunburned. “Maybe I would have, if you’d been here!”
“I’m here now.”
Emotions bubbled over. “So you are.” With a slow smile, Priss put both hands on his chest. The shirt was damp with sweat, the cotton so soft that she could feel every muscle beneath. “And you look a little . . . heated.”
Trace’s beautiful eyes darkened, and he reached for her.
“A dip will cool you down.” Priss shoved him as hard as she could. Taken by surprise, fully dressed, Trace went floundering backward off the end of the dock.
Priss caught a glimpse of the priceless expression of disbelief on Trace’s face before he went under the water.
Excited by the activity, the dogs leaped in after him. Liger roused himself enough to move out of the line of splashing.
Chris climbed up the ladder. “So that’s the new game, huh?” He laughed as he scooped Priss up into his arms.
“Chris!” She made a grab for his shoulders. “Put me down!”
“Afraid not, doll.” Just as Trace resurfaced, Chris jumped in with her. They landed between the swimming dogs.
Sputtering, her hair in her face and her skin chilled from the shock of the cold water, Priss cursed. Trace had already waded toward the shallower water off the side of the dock. His fair hair was flattened to his head and his T-shirt stuck to his body.
“Wait!” Priss shouted at him.
He was still waist-deep as he turned to glare at her.
Kicking and splashing, Priss doggy-paddled over to him, grabbed his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Oh, no, you don’t!”
Startled, Trace scooped her bottom in his hands and struggled for balance on the squishy mud bottom of the lake. “What the hell?” And then lower, “You look naked in this damn suit.”
Matt and Chris found that hilarious.
Priss looked at Trace’s handsome face, a face she loved, and kissed him. Hard.
For only a second, he allowed the sensual assault. He even kissed her back. Then he levered away from her. “You ruined my clothes, damn it.”
“Only because you were being a jealous jerk.”
His expression dark, he glared toward Matt.
Christ started humming, but poor Matt said, “Yeah,” and shrugged. “If you think about it, you’ll agree that you sort of were—and we both know there’s no reason. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
14
" It should be illegal for a woman to look as good as you do.”
“Really?” She peered down at herself again, but saw nothing all that spectacular. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it. I love you.” He dug in his pocket. “When I left today, it was for this.”
Speechless, Priss watched as he opened a now-wet jeweler’s box. Inside, securely nestled in velvet, was a beautiful diamond engagement ring. Her heart nearly stopped.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
There were no words. Her eyes suddenly burned and her throat went tight.
Trace took her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. The fit was perfect, but then, anything Trace did, he did right.
“Priss?” Using the edge of his fist, he lifted her chin. “We’ve been to movies and plays, to small diners and fancy restaurants. I’ve taken you dancing and hiking, to the amusement park and the zoo.”
Sounding like a choked frog, Priss said, “All the things I never got to do growing up.”
“But there’s so much more, honey.” He moved wet tendrils of hair away from her face and over her shoulder. “I was trying to give you time to enjoy it all.”
“No!” Priss did not want him second-guessing his intent. “I don’t need any more time. Really I don’t.”
Both still very attentive, Matt and Chris snickered. Trace just smiled at her.
Closing her hand into a fist, she held the ring tight. “All I need, all I want, is you.”
“Glad to hear it, because I’m not an overly patient guy. Hell, I think I knew you were the one the day you showed up in Murray’s office.” He kissed the tip of her nose, her lips, her chin. “You were so damned outrageous, and so pushy, that you scared me half to death.”
“You felt me up,” Priss reminded him. “But that was a first for me, too.”
“I remember it well.” He treated her to a deeper kiss, and ended it with a groan. “Every day since then, I’ve wanted you more. Even when you worried me, or lied to me, or made me insane, I admired you for it. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
15
" Jackson stood quietly as Alani came into the house. Unlike the other women, she didn’t wear a swimsuit. Shame. He’d love to see her in one. Everyone had duly celebrated Trace’s engagement, and Alani seemed taken with Priss—but then, who wouldn’t be? Priss was funny, smart, cute and—luckily for Trace—stacked.
Unaware of Jackson, Alani stopped to look out the patio doors. She looked . . . wistful. Like maybe she wanted to take part, but couldn’t.
In so many ways, despite being kidnapped by flesh peddlers, or maybe because of that, she was still an innocent. At just-barely twenty-three, she acted much older.
Like a virgin spinster.
Every night, in his dreams, they burned up the sheets.
Here, in reality, she avoided him. She avoided involvement.
But he’d get her over that. Somehow.
Suddenly Priss came in, wet hair sleek down her back, rivulets of water trailing between her breasts. She spotted Jackson right off and, after smiling at Alani, asked them both, “Why aren’t you guys coming down to swim?”
Alani jerked around to stare at Jackson with big eyes.
His crooked smile told her that he had her in his sights. “I was just about to ask Alani that.”
Priss laughed. “You’re still dressed.”
“I can undress fast enough.” He looked at Alani. “What about you?”
Her lips parted. “No, I . . . didn’t bring a suit.”
“Pity. Maybe we could move up to the cove and skinny-dip in private?”
Pointing a finger at him, Priss said, “Behave, you reprobate!” And then to Alani, “Beware of that one.”
Still watching him, Alani nodded. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
16
" I’m heading out.”
Her gaze searched his and, a little breathless, she asked, “Leaving?”
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. Any second how Trace would intrude. “Thing is, Alani, I can’t be around you without wanting you. Bad. Really bad.”
“Oh.”
“If that’s crude, well, then screw it, I’m crude. I know we’d have a great time in bed, but since you aren’t ready for that yet, well . . . I promised Trace I wouldn’t pressure you.”
Her neck went stiff. “Dear God. You discussed this with my brother?”
“No!” He cut a hand through the air and his voice lowered. “When . . . if . . . I get you out of your panties, believe me, it’ll be a private thing between us. No way in hell would I discuss that with anyone else.”
Her face went as red as Priss’s had.
“Trace and I talked about you maybe decorating my house, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Face still hot, she said, “I—”
“Yeah, forget it. That’s off. Like I said, I’d just hanker for you, and you aren’t exactly reciprocating. So that’s that.”
She blinked fast.
“But if you ever change your mind, all you have to do is let me know.” He reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and he wanted to feel her all over.
All over him. Naked. Hungry. Wet . . .
Damn, he had it bad. “I can promise you, if you do come to me, you won’t regret it.”
She swallowed, licked her lips and damned if her eyes didn’t heat. She wanted him, too. He had to believe that. But Trace was starting up the hill, and the others were looking on, and the last thing he wanted was to make Alani uncomfortable.
“Tell everyone I said goodbye. You make up any excuse you want.” And with that, he left Alani standing there, watching after him as he walked away.
God willing, she’d contact him soon.
He wasn’t sure he could stand it if she didn’t. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
19
" But she drew in a breath and asked with saccharine sweetness, “Trace, are you ready?”
No, he wasn’t ready. Somehow he had to regain control of this situation. Right now she had the upper hand, and that was untenable.
With the perfect plan in mind, Trace shook his head, but said with what he hoped sounded like indifference, “Quit stalling.”
And then he pulled out his cell phone.
This time, she was all but naked. What little material covered her proved mere decoration, like icing on a very sweet cake—a cake he wouldn’t mine eating, slowly, top to toes and everywhere in between.
Priss stood with her hands on her generous hips, her feet apart, shoulders back.
How such a small woman packed so many perfect curves, he didn’t know. But she managed it with flair. Boy, did she ever.
“Good enough.”
When she smiled at him, he lifted the cell phone and used it to take a picture.
Squawking, Priss leaped behind the curtain and her face went up in flames. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Suddenly shy?” Content with her appalled tone and burning-red face, Trace looked down at the phone. Oh, yeah, that’d do. He pushed a few buttons, then put the cell phone away. “Don’t worry, honey. I emailed it to myself.” His smile felt like a leer. “No one else will see it.”
Unappeased by that promise, she glared at him. “You—!”
“Now, Priss. Modesty at this late date is more than suspicious. You wanted my approval.” He shrugged—and struggled to keep his attention on her face and off the curves that showed even beneath the curtain she clutched to her chin. “You’ve got it, with my admiration, too. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
20
" Priss tried to open her door, but it still didn’t budge. “Unlock it.”
Instead he pulled her around to face him. He started to blast her, but something funny happening. Instead of reading her the riot act, he stared into her eyes, then down at her mouth. His entire demeanor changed. He looked just as tense, but now for different, hotter reasons.
He still stared intently at her mouth when Priss heard the lock click open. She glanced down and saw that Trace had reached back for the door, all without breaking that disturbing, electrifying visual contact with her.
She met his gaze again, and softened. Damn, but resisting Trace wouldn’t be easy, not if he kept looking at her like that. “You’re coming in, too?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, almost violently, he turned away from her and left the car. Still a gentleman, he strode around to her side and opened her door. “Let’s get this night over with.”
Well. That sounded insulting. "
― Lori Foster , Trace of Fever (Men Who Walk the Edge of Honor, #2)
